


two half-hitches

by TolkienGirl



Series: All That Glitters Gold Rush!AU: The Full Series [359]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Brotherly Love, Dysfunctional Family, Gen, Gold Rush AU, Mae and Maglor only know how to be OK by being very Not Ok, Title is a kind of knot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-13
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-21 14:08:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30022947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TolkienGirl/pseuds/TolkienGirl
Summary: Curufin is to fit the brace to Maedhros’ leg. Curufin was also the one to explain Fingon’s intended surgery to Maglor and Caranthir, whom he cornered in the kitchen. Maglor thought it poor form for Fingon to keep the plan to himself, but otherwise, he approved of it. It would be such a mercy, to have any good come from—the lake.
Relationships: Fingon | Findekáno & Maedhros | Maitimo, Maedhros | Maitimo & Maglor | Makalaurë, Maedhros | Maitimo & Sons of Fëanor
Series: All That Glitters Gold Rush!AU: The Full Series [359]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1300685
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11





	two half-hitches

Something is troubling Fingon, and Maglor can guess what it is. Though many in the fort must think him so, after his aborted drowning, he is not a fool. He is only— _grateful_ , for the ways in which Maedhros has spared him, and shrewd in seeing everything else that intrudes upon their hard-won solace.

Fingon always intrudes—but Maglor does not blame him for that at a time such as this. Fingon’s intrusions are part and parcel of his duty.

Yet what duties he has! He must work wonder after wonder on Maedhros, who is still a withered ghost of his old self, scraped and marred to boot. Fingon must make a limb straight again, this time, since nature cannot take its course rightly in the wake of foul play. Fingon must cut through skin and muscle to reach the bone itself, and then, somehow—

Oh, it is little wonder that Fingon is troubled.

Maglor’s relief nearly knew no bounds when Maedhros told him that he must not be present for the surgery. Maglor does not wish to know _anything_ about it, save that it is very likely to achieve great success. Other than a few grisly imaginings, quite unavoidable for one with a poetic mind, he has occupied his time and his brother’s with pleasanter things altogether. Little distractions, whether they require a hunk of Caranthir’s fresh bread, or a poem in their father-tongue that paces through green-boled trees while saying nothing of water.

Until Fingon’s arrival, this course was effective. The mood has shifted a little now—Maglor cannot quite divine _why_. He is, at least, relieved to be alone again. Then he remembers that, a moment ago, Maedhros told him not to speak of relief.

“Is there more to be read?” Maedhros asks, rolling the hem of his blanket between his thumb and forefinger.

“I…” Shaken from his reverie, Maglor glances down, skimming the pages of poetry. “Not much more.”

“You might finish it, then,” Maedhros says. “Before Curufin comes.”

Curufin is to fit the brace to Maedhros’ leg. Curufin was also the one to explain Fingon’s intended surgery to Maglor and Caranthir, whom he cornered in the kitchen. Maglor thought it poor form for Fingon to keep the plan to himself, but otherwise, he approved of it. It would be such a mercy, to have any good come from—the lake.

A mercy, to have the permanence of Maedhros’ injury, and its deleterious effect on his gait, be brought to Fingon’s attention only after Maedhros ran to save Maglor.

 _Fingon isn’t good for much_ , Curufin had said, _But I should think he’d be good for this. And if we don’t take this chance, Maedhros’ll be a cripple._ He paused, then said; _Twice over._

 _Don’t call him that_ , Caranthir had snapped in reply. Maglor had said nothing, still itching under the scrutiny of their eyes and the eyes of other people. If you came back to life in a world where few loved you, nobody called it a miracle.

“Are you very worried?” Maglor asks now, deciding that he can be a little braver than he has been, hiding in pretty Irish phrases. “Is that why you do not want me near?”

Maedhros blinks at him from beneath the waving locks of hair that curl above his left eye. “No,” he says. “I simply can’t bear to have you or the others see me like…like that. It would distress you.”

Maglor lays his poetry aside. “I would be very frightened,” he says. “If it were my leg. But then, I would have…you know me, Maitimo. I would never have borne such hurts. I am too weak.”

He is trying to be humble, but the words seem to pain Maedhros. He gasps out,

“You have been beside me for my nightmares.”

“All our lives,” Maglor agrees, tenderly, and reaches out a hand to touch his brother’s hair. Where once it was ragged and brittle, it has grown soft again. He has to believe that flesh and bone can be renewed like this. He has to believe in Maitimo. “But as for this—you are stronger than me, Maitimo. You always have been. And it will be so much better, afterwards. After the pain is gone.”

“How fares the rest of the fort?” Maedhros asks abruptly. Maglor is not sure what has prompted such an inquiry, but it is small wonder that Maedhros should be ignorant, since he has been hidden away from everyone since the lake. And he must be fearful, too, that Maglor has been mistreated for his great, attempted sin.

“Fingolfin is rather central,” Maglor begins, since that seems like safe ground between the two of them. He wouldn’t say the same of the rest of his brothers. “Most everybody is still thinking of _you_ , of course, but the garden is being planted and some talk of returning to trade.”

“God, I hope so,” Maedhros says. “Horribly bleak, if I were the only topic of conversation.”

“It’s not like that.”

“Good.”

Maglor begins again, discomfited. “Supplies are a little low, I think,” he says. Only after he’s said it does he worry that Maedhros will fear a dearth of numbing medicines. But that is Fingon’s province, not Maglor’s, and Fingon keeps his secrets.

The last month has proven _that_.

“After the attack, it has been deemed unwise to venture to Hithlum. But that may change. I suppose we can’t rot here forever.”

“Not while we live,” Maedhros agrees. His tone is pleasant, but Maglor doesn’t like the words.

“The children are still pesky little rascals,” he offers, hoping that that will be yet another distraction. “They lay claim to everybody’s time, who will stomach them, for an instant. Amras likes them well enough. And he is still quite friendly with that Mollie girl...”

“Mollie?” Maedhros asks. Maglor must conceal his terror at once, and as best he can.

“Just a runaway,” he says. The subject of Ulfang was one thing. The subject of Thuringwethil and her mocking message and the silken lock of hair she gave to Maglor, the lock he still keeps in his things, is quite another. It is not a _worse_ betrayal, maybe, but it is more of the same.

He does not want to learn how Maedhros will bear it.

“I am glad that Amras has friends,” Maedhros says quietly. “I…I do not see him very often, and perhaps that is for the best.”

“For the best?”

“Until I am _so much better_ ,” Maedhros says, each word distinct, “I fear I may frighten all of you. Even you, my patient Macalaure.”

“Have a little more bread, I implore.” Maglor has decided that the subject of the fort and its inhabitants has run its course. “Before Curufin comes.”

“No, thank you, love.” Maedhros’ hand creeps to his throat, and rests there. “Does Amras—does Amras know, what is to be done to my leg?”

“Yes. Caranthir told him.”

“Caranthir! How is Caranthir?”

“Insisting that the garden be planted to his specifications,” Maglor says. “Are you surprised?”

“No. But glad. Look after them, Macalaure, as well as yourself. I don’t want them near the room.”

“Of course not,” Maglor assures him. The time must be drawing near now, for Curufin to come with Fingon and fit the brace. Maglor does not want to watch that, even though no blood will be drawn. Surely Maedhros would not want him to watch, either.

(Maglor only changed the bandages once.)

“I will take away these dishes,” he says, “To clear a place for Fingon. And I will instruct Caranthir and Amras to occupy themselves tomorrow…if it is to be tomorrow…”

Maedhros grimaces. “It is to be as soon as Fingon thinks it possible.”

Maglor will not speak again of _relief_. Doubtless, he is wrong to feel it. But his heart beats hard in his chest when he remembers his brother’s arms around him in the water, keeping him from sinking. His hands are clammy when he imagines his own thigh laid open, wrenched and shattered, then locked in steel.

His brightness this day has been a cobweb; a lie meant as much for himself as Maedhros. As he carries away the remnants of their breakfast, and leaves his brother alone, guilt is almost near enough to choke him. But he is not the same Maglor who waded in deep water. He is doing what Maedhros has asked him; even his selfishness finds a place under such a command.

Maglor is not strong enough to bear the blood and screams, and Maedhros does not blame him for it.

Maedhros wants Maglor alive.


End file.
